Adventures of an Unloved Austen Hero
by Charlotte Heywood
Summary: Tired of constantly being overshadowed by Mr. Darcy, Edmund Bertram decides to take matters into his own hands and to become a beloved hero of some other genre.
1. Prologue

Adventures of an Unloved Austen Hero,

Or, Theme and Variations

Prologue:

Doubtless, O gentle and refined reader, you have heard the name of Fitzwilliam Darcy, and more than that, have heard it spoken with the sigh of longing that usually accompanies a "fan-girl" crush. "What a man he is!" you say to yourself. "Why don't they make them like that anymore- so handsome and devoted and-" Well, I'm sure you understand me. If, on the other hand, you were asked your opinion of Edmund Bertram, you would probably either scratch your head and hope the questioner would give you some hint as to who on earth he is, or to say with a look of disdain "Oh- you mean that boring clergyman from Mansfield Park?" That, reader, is precisely the prejudice I have struggled under for almost the last two hundred years. But how can I know what people say about me, you ask? That is one of the unusual abilities of a literary character- we are always able to know if we have been censured or praised, whether by a crowd of lovesick teenage girls, or by the most scholarly professor.

As my dear wife (formerly Fanny Price) and I were sitting down to breakfast one morning, she looked at me and sighed, shaking her head.

"There- I've been called boring and priggish again! What harsh judges these college students are!"

"This must have been the 23rd time this week!" I replied. "I am very sorry to hear it--- Oh! I am called names as well! - I am also very dull, you know." (The last part with a slight smile)

"I suppose that we must try to get used to it as best we can." she said sweetly, trying to smooth over this unpleasantness.

Usually, I would have let the matter drop and tried to ignore these hurtful comments, but I was in a strangely rebellious mood, and did not feel like submitting once more.

"I don't see how it is that that Darcy fellow is constantly being swooned over- he so rarely tries to make himself agreeable that it is really a wonder that anyone likes him at all!" I said somewhat resentfully. "Besides, if all it took to be an Austen hero was to wander around and brood on nothing, I'm sure that half the world would meet the qualifications."

"But Edmund!" said Fanny, with her usual gentleness. "Mr. Darcy is a fellow Austen character too, and should be treated with the same respect that you would wish for yourself or me. Besides, his popularity clearly shows that he has succeeded as a protagonist where _neither_ of us has done so far."

"Then perhaps our difficulty is more that we must compete with him and Miss Bennet, rather than our own inferiority. If we were to strike out in something else, maybe we would have better luck."

"Something else? What else could we possibly do?"

"Why, there are so many other genres that we could attempt! Who knows- we might become the well-loved hero and heroine of something we hadn't even thought of!"

"I can't imagine what- you know that I cannot act, Edmund. The very idea makes me anxious. Pray- do not ask it of me."

"But it wouldn't be acting at all, my dear- we would be ourselves entirely, but only in a different setting or sort of story. I am sure that readers of modern works would come to love and appreciate you just as I do, if only they were able to meet you! Sometimes people are frightened away at the prospects of reading a Classic when they would have every fondness for the same characters, were they in a different sort of novel."

For some time I attempted to persuade her in this vein, but she still had her doubts about the idea, and it became clear to me that the only way I could hope to convince her was to succeed first myself, and so, assembling the sorts of possessions that heroes generally need, I set off. Poor Fanny was very distraught at my leaving her, and feared that I would end up (as the moderns phrase it) a "red shirt", but I reassured her that, being the hero of a novel already, I could never be content to be 'police officer #1' or 'man who is blown apart in the first encounter to show how dangerous the situation is'.


	2. Filial Disobedience

It was a chilly, early morning in October when I set out on my journey. There were no other travelers to be seen for miles and so I rode through the mist in silence, contemplating what my next course of action might be. There are certainly many authors who might go on to describe this scene in minute detail until you were sick of reading it, but in an attempt to ingratiate myself with my readers, I will leave it for them to imagine. I continued on in this fashion for some time, until I rode by a small pond, where I happened to catch my reflection out of the corner of my eye.

"Upon my word!" I said to my self. "I certainly don't look very heroic!", and this was entirely the truth. As I gazed at myself, I saw the image of a well-kempt, respectable clergyman, but alas, not a hero!

"This must be fixed before I go any farther, or I shall never get anywhere." I thought, and dismounting, began my transformation. I was well aware of the fact that modern audiences tend to prefer the scruffy, manlier types, so I lost no time in making my hair into a perfect mess and liberally applying dirt to my face and hands, something that I usually would abhor. This being accomplished, I removed my greatcoat and inner jacket so that I wore only a light undershirt, and also took off my cravat, exposing my bare neck to about my collarbone. (Very shocking, I know) This shirt I also temporarily removed and dipped in the water so that the cloth might stick to the skin and give the desired effect of being translucent. In short, I became very "sexy"… and very cold.

As soon as I had finished, I put these articles of clothing into my knapsack and resumed my trek, trying very hard not to shiver every time the wind blew. By this time the mist had cleared off, and not long afterwards I noticed a gentleman on horseback coming up the lane. As he approached, I saw that he was older and had a stately bearing, and within half a minute I recognized him as being my own father, Sir Thomas Bertram. He stopped short and stared at me for a moment with some astonishment.

"Edmund!" he cried. "What on earth have you done to yourself?"

'A disapproving parent?!' I thought. 'Was there ever a better chance to distinguish myself by being rebellious?' (Another characteristic of the usual present-day protagonist)

"I am an adult, sir," said I, with a look of defiance. "Can't I chuse my own attire?"

Contrary to the expectations of stereotype, my father, rather than becoming enraged and insisting on my explaining myself, merely looked at me with great surprise and replied thusly:

"Why, my dear son, what are you about? You have always been the most responsible of your siblings, and this is most unlike you! Pray, is there something that you are trying to prove?"

In truth, I did not want to become estranged from my Father any more than was respectable, so I soon explained myself and my actions.

"Become hero of another genre? (said he) This is very unusual indeed, but I believe I understand your reasoning, and I wish you success in your endeavours- Ah!-" he added with a slight smile. "But I am not playing my part well, then. I ought to threaten disinheritance at the very least!"

We both laughed and then he asked me what sort of story I was going to try first.

"I think I will begin with a fantasy adventure- that is a very popular genre and it will be interesting to try something so different from my present course of life."

"That could be… unusual. Shall you be Edmund the Barbarian then, or something more civilized, such as an arch-mage?"

I was very surprised at my Father's apparent understanding of the genre and wondered how such a grave sort of man came to have it, but I imagine that he must read something on those long voyages to Antigua, and it may as well be fantasy as anything.

"Well," said he after a moment, "I suppose that I must give you something for your journey." He rummaged around in his pockets and pulled out a coin purse and a box of breath-mints.

"Father, is there something you are trying to tell me?" I asked, looking dubiously at the latter item.

"Why Edmund, if you had done your research on the genre, you would know that when a hero is given some item by his parent or trainer, it almost always turns out to be magical, or at least useful in some way. I'm afraid that I have nothing else with me that I can give you, but I'm sure they will prove invaluable at some crucial point."

I thanked him, and though I wondered why we couldn't just run to Mansfield for half a minute and get what I needed (it was scarcely a quarter mile off), I thought that it would be best to leave my Father to his business since these sorts of meetings should always have a more spontaneous quality to be truly affecting. We embraced (we were no longer on horseback, obviously) and he charged me to write to him whenever I could and not hesitate to ask for money if I wanted it, and I promised to do both with all the affection of someone who would have done both anyways. We parted, but before I got far, he stopped and called out to me over his shoulder.

"Oh, and please do put in a good word for me on your travels! I'm afraid that my reputation still has yet to recover since that horrendous film adaptation (Mansfield Park '99) that portrayed me as a tyrannical lecher."

What malevolent creatures these Hollywood filmmakers are, who defame a perfectly upright and well-respected literary character without once bestowing a thought on the poor soul that they are injuring!


	3. An Unlikely Admirer

I am sure that few have felt more uncomfortably out of place than I did when I entered the stereotypical tavern in the town of Ardenvale, which lay in the heart of the Fantastic Realms. Despite the fact that I was decked out in full armor and carrying an enormous sword, that I didn't belong seemed very evident to the host and the other patrons, and my now having a cold, thanks to my ill-advised attempt at heroism, did not help. It might seem strange that a man who was never known for being particularly muscular would be able to carry all this weight, but I assure you that no one was more surprised than I when, upon declaring myself to be a fantasy hero, I suddenly doubled in strength and mysteriously gained fighting abilities! I can give no explanation for this other than to say that I must have been thought too easy to kill, and so the authorial powers that be decided to do something about it, rather than risk having such a short and tragic tale.

As I sat at a table having something to refresh myself, a young, buxom barmaid came up to me and asked if there was anything else I wanted. She was as handsome as barmaids usually are, but I paid little attention to her personal charms and asked what there was to eat.

She told me with a very simpering look, and after taking my order suggested that if I were interested, she would be more than happy to meet me upstairs at the time of my choosing.

"Madam, I am a married man!" said I with a blush of indignation.

"Married?" snapped the barmaid. "What kind of adventurer is married, I'd like to know? Don't you know the standards of Kirk-ing?"

"I've heard them as much as anyone, but that doesn't mean I can break my marriage vows!"

After this she quickly lost her pleasant manner, and remained surly for the rest of the length of my stay.

It seems very odd to me that a tradition has been established of a hero's trying to seduce almost every young and lovely female that he meets- scarcely a heroic act, I would think! In the literature of my day, such a fellow would be condemned as a heartless libertine, but now it is quite the norm, and an apparent test of a protagonist's manhood!

While I mused on this fascinating and profound subject, I was interrupted by the arrival of a royal messenger.

"The Princess Cassmanissima has been kidnapped!" he cried, rushing into the room. This was a very convenient plot hook, but still to this day I cannot fathom why he felt the need to tell this to the patrons of a tavern.

"Who was she kidnapped by?" I asked.

"By a dragon so terrible that none has ever survived to tell its name!" he groaned.

Well, was there really anything I could do besides volunteer to rescue her? He thanked me profusely, and promised to procure a guide directly to lead me to the dragon's lair, which he eventually did, after a long speech on my being her only hope and other flatteries.

Within a few hours, I was near the entrance of the den, where the guide had left me and swiftly ran off to save himself, muttering under his breath that I was a dead man, and other things he thought I couldn't hear. Surprisingly, it was by no means a desolate place- there were carefully landscaped beds of flowers and a long avenue of stately oaks that would do credit to any country house in England.

"May I help you?" said a voice behind me.

I turned around and to my astonishment beheld a large dragon with iridescent pink scales, my astonishment being caused mainly by its speaking to me in such a polite fashion.

"Um…Are you the dragon that lives in this den- The one who is reputed to be so terrible that none has ever survived to tell its name?"

"I do live in this den, young man, but I think that my reputation is for the most part quite undeserved. I would be more than happy to let my visitors survive if they did not insist on laughing at me when I tell it to them!"

"May I ask what it is?" I said, with a little trepidation. "I promise I won't laugh."

She paused for a moment, deliberating.

"It's… Fanny."

"I don't know why I would laugh at that." I said with some relief. "It happens to be the same name as my wife's, and far be it from me to find it amusing."

"I was named after a character in one of my mother's favourite novels." she continued, a little disappointed that she did not now have the pleasure of devouring me. "Perhaps you have read Mansfield Park?"

"Good Heavens!" I cried. "Why, that is the very novel that I am originally from, and whose heroine (your namesake) is my wife!"

"Are you Edmund Bertram!?" asked the dragon with some surprise. "What an honour it is to meet such a distinguished literary character!"

We discussed various aspects of my novel at some length, and I rejoiced to find such an unexpected and ardent fan, though gradually I was obliged to bring myself back to the cause of my visit.

"I'm very sorry to turn the subject, but I was wondering if you might have the Princess Cassmanissima in your possession- her parents are very concerned for her, I'm told."

She looked at me guiltily, and I almost discerned a blush come over her scales.

"I am very sorry Mr. Bertram, but I had her for lunch about ten minutes before you arrived. She was very tasty, though." she added.

"With all due respect, Madam, that isn't much of a consolation." I sighed and politely took my leave.

After acquainting the messenger with this melancholy turn of events, I returned to the inn and soon retired to my room.

"Maybe I'm not meant to be a fantasy hero." I said with despondence. "After all, I did everything I was supposed to do- except have an affair with the barmaid- and it still went wrong!"

Exhausted by the long journey I had made, I went to sleep soon afterwards and began to have a very pleasant dream. I dreamt that my wife and I were stargazing on our front lawn, and enjoying the peacefulness of the evening together, when she leaned over to (as I thought) give me a kiss. Imagine my surprise when she bit me instead! I cried out and tossed a little in my sleep, but since the pain went away directly, I did not wake.

The next morning when I awoke, I noticed that my skin was much paler than usual, which I naturally attributed to the cold that I mentioned earlier. It was only when I went to the mirror to shave that I received the shock- for when I turned my head to the side, I noticed that there were two good-sized puncture wounds in my neck that were still dark and somewhat fresh, though no longer bleeding.

"Well," I thought, with less panic than you might expect. "I must be attempting horror next!"


	4. The Horror!, or Teenage Angst

Since my ill-fated foray into the realm of fantasy, I had begun to acquire some rather unusual habits. I suddenly developed a fondness for extremely rare steak, and for dressing all in black- fortunately, due to my profession I had no shortage of dark clothing. Likewise, I began to prefer traveling by night, and was amazed to find that I could see exceedingly well in the dark, even when there was no moon to guide me. But most startling of all, I noticed that not only had my canine teeth grown long and pointed, but there was a decided red glint to my eyes.

I tried hard to avoid other people until I could find some way of ridding myself of this malady, since I highly doubted that making an attack on some hapless bystander would increase my popularity, but sooner or later I was bound to meet someone, which, as you will soon see, I did.

I had come by this time to a more modern region, which seemed to be modeled off the present day United States. The area I was in was luckily mostly wooded, so I was able to keep out of sight and was left in peace, excluding the sounds of the "cars" on the highway about half a mile away. As I rode on one evening at about twilight, I saw, on glancing over my shoulder, that someone was following me, and soon I realized that there were no less than five people, all dressed in black and wearing silver chains and thick eyeliner.

"Excuse me," said I, "But is there any particular reason that you are following me about?"

"Uhhh… Are those real?" asked a boy in pale makeup, pointing at my fangs.

"You know, it isn't very polite to point out another person's flaws- especially when it's something they have no control over!" I replied with a little annoyance.

"See! I told you he's a real vampire!"

"That's so awesome!" several of them said together.

"Not really- seeing that I'm a clergyman, it certainly interferes with my being able to perform my job properly."

They ignored this comment and immediately began to entreat me to bite them so they could be vampires too.

"Do you really want to be a social outcast like I've become?" I asked.

"We're already social outcasts anyways." A girl piped up.

"But what will your parents think?"

"They don't care, as long as we keep up our grades and don't drink underage!"

"But aren't you afraid it might hurt?"

"Not really." said the chorus of Goths together, and would listen to no other reasoning.

Reader, I hope that you do not think very ill of me for my following actions- after all, they did plead with such insistence, and I really had eaten almost nothing that day. About half an hour later, I was feeling very pleasantly full and there were now five teenaged vampires sitting beside me.

"Now remember, pray don't wreak havoc on your town, or the area surrounding it, since it would be terrible for me to have been the cause of such a menace." I made them promise that they would keep their bloodlust to either the willing or to whatever they could buy at their local butcher's shop, and then continued on my way.

Nothing very remarkable happened for the next few days, other than that I began to feel extremely guilty for the event mentioned before, and was as penitent as a vampire could be.

It was not until I reached a creepy abandoned churchyard that I began to feel very uneasy, as if I were being watched. I looked all around but saw nothing but weathered headstones and the occasional ghost (it being near Halloween, after all), but neither were the cause of my anxiety. All of a sudden, I heard a rustling behind me. I whirled around and saw something I did not expect- there, perched on one of the tombstones was a small, dark-haired woman wearing a long trench-coat.

"Hello, Mr. Bertram." said she with a smile that did not seem very friendly.

I looked at her for a moment before having a sudden and unpleasant realization.

"Miss Crawford- is that you!?" I cried with astonishment. "What are you doing out in a graveyard by yourself?"

Now, considering that we had not seen each other since the last unfortunate meeting in our novel, it is needless to say that I was feeling extremely awkward.

"I might ask you the same question." she continued, standing up. "What brings you from Mansfield Park?"

"Well, I've been trying to establish myself as the hero of another genre, since I have very few supporters in my own."

"Oh. That is precisely what I have been doing!"

"What are you trying to be?" I asked politely.

She reached into her pocket and took out a slender wooden rod with a sharpened point.

"A vampire slayer."

I would have turned pale if I were not already as pallid as I could be, but I backed away slowly as she brandished the stake. There are many ardent admirers of the Crawfords who find them to be witty and quite moral enough for any reasonable person, but it is my hope that this encounter, which I swear is as true as any incident in the book, will be enough to acquit me of the charge of dropping a fascinating and wonderful woman to marry an insipid bore.

"If you're trying to take revenge on me, I really don't see why- after all, I almost certainly would have married you if you had not taken such a light view of your brother's sins! Why can't we come to some compromise over this? We are Austen characters, after all, and not supposed to kill each other!"

"Hmph!" said Miss Crawford, still advancing. "I knew that you were overly moral, but I didn't think you were a coward as well!"

"I was raised to believe that it was dishonourable to attack a woman, Madam. I am no coward, and if you think I will not defend myse-"

I would have said more, but we were suddenly interrupted by a wild, piercing yell.

"What was-" Miss Crawford began, but before she had time to react, something small and light coloured rushed out of the woods and barreled into her. It quickly took the lady to the ground and pummeled her mercilessly, screaming unintelligibly all the while. At last, its opponent was vanquished and it slowly got to its feet and smoothed its fair hair and, coming softly over to me, revealed itself to be none other than my wife!

"You saved my life, dear Fanny!" I exclaimed, embracing her.

"She was trying to kill you!?"

This was not quite the answer I expected, but I was still grateful for this Deus ex Machina, and told her so in the warmest terms. Despite such encouragement, I was surprised to see that she burst into tears.

"Oh Edmund, I'm so sorry!" she sobbed.

"Come now, what are you sorry for?" I said gently.

"I've ruined your story- You have to label it as OOC [out of character now and it is sure not to be taken as seriously! What a wicked, ungrateful creature I am!"

"But Fanny, most people have been wanting you to fight back for centuries! Surely you are gratifying them much more than you are offending. I wouldn't be surprised if this incident was the beginning of your rise in reputation."

She was mollified enough by this to cease crying, and we decided to leave the cemetery before Miss Crawford regained consciousness, lest she try to take revenge, as no doubt she would.

"But you still haven't been cured of your vampirism, Edmund." said Fanny after a few minutes. "How will you take up your parish duties again when you return if you cannot even enter the church?"

"I don't know. What can I do with myself?" I sighed.

"Wait! What about the breath-mints my Uncle gave you in the second chapter?"

"Of course! Why hadn't I thought of it before!?"

I rummaged through my knapsack until I felt the small, rounded tin and pulled it out. With great alacrity I took a mint and was about to pop it into my mouth when the moon, which had been hidden by clouds, shone forth brightly and much to our chagrin, we heard several wild howls in the distance.

"What are the chances of your being able to go into a violent rage again, my dear?" I asked.

"It was entirely wrong of me, Edmund, and I intend never to do so again!" was her decisive answer.

"Then I think my cure must wait."


	5. The Lieutenant's Tale

Plot devices are very strange and mysterious things, I have always felt. What could the odds possibly be of my being given mints of anti-vampirism, instead of the many thousands of other things they could have been? But I shall not question the fluke that allowed me to return to being my usual self, rather than living for all eternity as some sort of genial, English Lestat.

After we had arrived at a modest Hotel 666 at the outskirts of the horror genre, we checked into our room and, after eating a couple of the aforesaid pastilles, I felt the sudden and strong urge to sleep, which I obeyed. When I awoke the next morning- well, in truth, it was the early afternoon- I was pleased to find that my fangs were almost completely retracted, and my skin had taken on a much more natural colour. However, I was surprised to hear voices coming from the other room. I dressed as quickly as I could and went to see who could be visiting, and soon beheld a young, cheerful naval officer sitting opposite my wife, in animated conversation.

"I'm glad you are finally up." said the latter, rising to meet me. "William has been here for several hours now and I was beginning to fear that you would miss him altogether!"

"Yes." said my brother-in-law cordially. "Fanny tells me that you have had some very interesting adventures lately, and I'd like to hear all about it."

Of course I obliged him, and related the events of the last few weeks with as much drama as I could, though I fear that my delivery might have been less the animation of a storyteller as the steady but dull recounting of a parson.

"How interesting." said William, though I could tell that his mind had been wandering a little during my tale. "But you know- I've done something of that sort myself. Did I ever tell you the story of how I came by your amber cross, Fanny?"

"I don't believe that you mentioned it."

"Well then, if my cousin doesn't mind my taking up a chapter or so, I would be happy to tell it."

I had no objection, and did not feel up to supplying my own adventure for a little while, so he proceeded. I know that it is highly irregular, but so great is my regard for my in-law that I simply must give his tale a title of its own, and I hope you will pardon my taking this liberty.

Portsmouth Price and the Castle of Reasonable Peril

"It was a dark and stormy night-"

"That beginning sounds very familiar…" I thought, glancing at him. He blushed, as if he knew that I had found him out, but continued.

"At any rate, we were off the coast of Sicily when a terrible storm arose. We were very lucky that we were able to land our ship with only moderate damage and no loss of life, but we found that we were miles away from where we had planned- in fact, we had no idea where we were at all. A small group of us set out the next morning to try to find a nearby town where we could buy foodstuffs and supplies to repair our ship. We looked for some time, but didn't find either a town or really anybody at all. At last we came to the top of a steep hill and found an old ruined castle, just like you read about in Mrs. Radcliffe's books. There was nowhere else for us to go, and by that time it was beginning to be dark, so we decided to go in and see if there was a place where we could pass the night. I said before that it was ruined, but it wasn't long before one of the men discovered a stone staircase leading down into a secret passageway or dungeon beneath. Of course, our curiosity wouldn't allow us to ignore it, so down we went into pitch blackness.

We continued in this way for some time, until I happened to spot a hole in the wall that seemed to lead somewhere else. The chaplain and I were of the last in the party, and requested leave to go have a look inside, which was granted. Stepping through the hole, we found a large room that probably hadn't been used for centuries, since everything in it was covered in dust. We searched the room thoroughly and I found a very pretty little enameled box on a table in the middle. No sooner had I taken it though, but at least ten of Buonaparte's soldiers suddenly burst into the room. I don't understand French, but my friend said that they were demanding the box I was holding, as it had something very valuable inside it. Of course, I couldn't just give into them (what sort of Englishman would I be then?), but we couldn't fight them all at once either, so we ran for one of the other doors, leaving them shouting something or other at us and trying to follow."

"Good heavens!" said Fanny. "Didn't your comrades come to your rescue?"

"No- we found out later that they had been taken captive- surprised them, I guess. But as I was saying, they followed and we ran for what seemed like ages, until we no longer heard their voices behind us. We were very happy that we had lost them, but soon realized that we ourselves were completely lost.

'"What shall we do?"' asked my friend.

'"I suppose there's nothing for it except to keep going until we find a way out."'

'"The Price is right! -err… sorry, William, but I have been waiting for a chance to say that…"'

And so, other than a few cheap pop-culture references, we went on for a minute or two in silence, and all the while went deeper and deeper into the dungeon. It would be dull to tell you of all of the traps that were meant to kill us along the way, but we were near death by impaling, poisonous insects or ninjas at least a dozen times."

"Why would there be ninjas in Sicily?" I asked.

"Umm… maybe Buonaparte imported them from Japan- you know, as his secret weapon!"

"Then why do we never hear of them being used in any battles, or as spies?"

"Ninjas are very stealthy, you know."

"So stealthy that they have never been mentioned in either any contemporary accounts or modern day history books?"

"Whose story is this, anyway?" asked William pointedly, and I allowed him to continue uninterrupted.

"And so, after we had battled the ninjas and escaped from an enormous boulder that came rolling down at us for no good reason, we finally found ourselves outside, not far from a large bonfire where another group of Frenchmen were gathered. We crouched down behind a low stone wall, but of course nobody bothered to look behind it, so we were safe. Just then they brought out a few captives, which I immediately recognized as our crewmates.

'"Do you have a plan?"' I asked my friend.

'"Creating a distraction usually works well for this sort of thing."' he said, and ran off to do just that, waving his arms and yelling (I assume) French insults.

While the soldiers chased him around angrily, I went over to my mates and cut them loose, since they were bound and gagged, as is customary. You would think that a few would have stayed behind to guard them, but fortunately they had been making free with the wine and didn't have much common sense by the time we got there. We escaped into the night and were eventually joined by my friend the chaplain, and happened to come upon a village the next morning, where we were able to get supplies and a ride back to the ship. When we arrived, we found that it had already been repaired and was just waiting for us to depart. It was only after we had been at sea a couple days that I remembered the box that I had picked up. Inside, I found a very fine amber cross-

'Just the right gift for Fanny.' I thought, and so I kept it safe in my chest until my return to England."

"So my cross is a stolen artifact?" asked Fanny with some shock.

"They would have taken it if I hadn't." said William. "Besides, I thought that you liked it."

"Oh believe me, I do, and it was very kind of you to think of me, but did you ever learn why the French wanted it so badly?"

"I didn't wait to ask them!"

"I wonder what it does, then…" she pondered, fingering the pendant, which she was wearing on a bit of ribbon.

I am sure that some of my more fastidious readers will question the truthfulness of my brother-in-law's narrative, but all I shall say is that in spite of his including some slightly odd, anachronistic details, at least no one can accuse him of lacking imagination.


	6. The Old and the Tranquil

"What can be left for us to do?" asked Fanny thoughtfully. "You have already covered several of the most important genres."

"I wish you hadn't already done most of the action-packed ones before I got here. I doubt that there's anything interesting left!" said William discontentedly.

I sighed and attempted to come up with something, but to no avail. We were just about to give up when suddenly the telephone rang.

"Who would know this number?" I wondered. (We were still at the hotel)

"Have either of you been watching a cursed videotape?" inquired my brother-in-law. "Maybe it's that odd little girl that murders people!"

"I hope not!" said Fanny nervously.

"Don't worry- horror was two chapters ago." said I.

All three of us stared at the telephone, but nobody moved. For my part, I would have been more than happy to answer it, had I known how to. At long last, William picked it up. As he listened, he began to turn very pale, and for some mysterious reason a saxophone began to play softly in the background. After he hung up, he turned to me and said with a little more drama than was strictly necessary:

"That was the hospital- they said that your mother is in a coma and that you must return home at once!"

I gasped and was just in time to catch Fanny, who promptly fainted.

It was only after my wife had been revived that I noticed that the appearance of all three of us had changed somewhat. Fanny, who was rather slight and pale before, had abruptly become very buxom and was now wearing carefully applied makeup and a low-cut dress. Likewise, the other two of us now resembled the heroes of some cheap romance novel with a title like "The European Billionaire's Tahitian Mistress".

"This is even worse that I thought!" said William with a groan. "We're in a soap opera!" (Insert dramatic music here)

I found my mother in a sterile, cold-looking room at the Mansfield Regional Medical Center, about a mile from our house. No sooner did I enter, but that annoying "Musak" began to play again, and I wondered if I would ever be free of it. She was lying on the bed with Pug snuggled up beside her (she rarely went anywhere without him), and wore a tranquil smile on her face. I had only been seated next to her a few minutes when she opened her eyes and yawned.

"I was not asleep, Edmund!" said she. "I was just resting my eyes- (looking around confusedly) what am I doing in this hospital room?"

It appeared that my mother was in no danger at all, but why she had been put in the hospital in the first place was still a mystery to me. I was beginning to contemplate this, but was interrupted by a gunshot and a loud scream in the hallway adjoining. Pug hopped off the bed and ran out barking, and I followed. Imagine my horror when I saw Fanny lying on the floor, and my Aunt Norris standing above her with a revolver in her hand!

I have taken a lot of criticism for not adequately defending my cousin from the viciousness of our aunt, and it is not an uncommon reader who considers it a 'cop-out' that I was "too angry to speak", but I assure you that I was not too angry to hit my aunt over the head with a bedpan, and that I _may_ have had a little more pleasure in doing so than was considered quite proper. The pan struck her with a satisf-- um… horrifying clunk, and she went down in a heap, thankfully not discharging the revolver, which I swiftly relieved her of.

Of course, my next action was to rush over to poor Fanny, who was clutching her leg and lying in a pool of blood. I called loudly for a doctor, and, since we just happened to be in a hospital, several came. As they assisted my wife, I asked one of the nurses to summon the police, who arrived in time for my Aunt to regain consciousness and start screaming at me at the top of her lungs.

"You haven't seen the last of me!" she cried, and I began to have the nasty feeling that indeed I hadn't.


	7. A Fashionable Despair

Unhappy Fanny! Not only has she been thought insipid for the last two centuries, but now she has suffered the exquisite pain of being shot in the thigh! I hope this might help to make her more sympathetic, so at least her suffering won't be in vain. Surprisingly, she pulled though very well. Even though she always seemed to be a poor, frail little thing, she had the stubbornness to be able to cling to life and health, and at least make a reasonable recovery. I visited her in the hospital the morning after my memorable encounter with my Aunt, where she was propped up in bed, looking very pale, but not any worse than was to be expected.

"I'm glad to see you awake, my dear." said I. "I have brought some chocolate and some books for you to enjoy. I thought perhaps you might want something different, so I have borrowed some of Tom's modern collection."

"How thoughtful!" said Fanny. "Though I fear I am not up to reading much at present- being full of medication is very distracting, you know."

"I'll read to you, if you would like." I replied, taking up a volume.

"That would be lovely."

"Let me see… this first one is called The Round and the Furry- apparently it's about a family of Southern rabbits in decline."

"I do love rabbits!" exclaimed Fanny. "They're such sweet little things, you know."

"And are very good seasoned and roasted."

"Edmund!"

"Sorry." I answered, (though still correct) and began to read:

April 15th, 1929

Buster and I were chewing on some lettuce we kept on chewing my nose wiggled and I hopped all over the yard Get out of my garden said the farmer I'll get my shotgun I will bang bang bang we ran away into the burrow I made it but I couldn't see buster anymore where is he he's gone where is that rabbit said mama

_Mama was very angry and thumped hard on the floor of the burrow. Where is buster he's gotten himself in trouble again I reckon he's a no-good rotten bunny_

Where's that Katie gone off with that low-down circus rabbit I bet she's gonna have a whole burrow full of babies if shes not careful I ain't takin' care of none of them she's an irresponsible little slut

Katie

Katie

Katie

Kat-

"Do you have any idea what is going on?" I asked.

"Are we supposed to?"

"Perhaps we should try something a little less… confusing. (Reaching for another book) This one looks promising- it's called The Young Man and the Pond.

"Yes, it looks quite edifying." said Fanny, perking up a bit.

Chapter One

See Sam.

See Sam fish.

See the fish.

It is big.

Sam doesn't catch the fish.

Sam tries again.

Sam doesn't catch the fish.

Sam tries again.

He still doesn't catch the fish.

It is a deep Christian allegory.

"That's no better!" said Fanny. "It seems like a children's book with all the interesting parts cut out- Poor Tom must have a very strange taste in literature."

"What about a little poetry?" I asked. "Surely that will be more pleasant, since I know how fond you are of it."

"I hope so."

"This one is called The Hell Jar, and is recommended by all the best angst-ridden critics, so I've heard."

"Tragedy can be pleasing when written in such a way to inspire our compassion and pity. Let us hear it."

Death and Transfiguration

If I have to grade one more paper,

One more half-baked, hair-brained

Excuse for a project,

I swear that I will cut my throat.

What a wonderful, rich, creamy death I

Will enjoy.

Haunted by images

Of the silken threads of life which I will cut

With a pair of pinking shears.

I will shear my life like a

Large, merino sheep, and my wool will fall down,

Down through the milky dew,

Tragic because it is not machine-washable.

I will card my wool and spin

Like Clotho or the wise, eternal Spiderman,

And then I will knit a noose, thin and graceful

And hang it round my neck,

Strangled,

Limply hung

With my own thoughts of suicide.

"I don't think we'll get anything rational from this one either." I sighed and tossed it onto the pile of rejects. It greatly disappointed me that for the most part my efforts were a loss (other than the chocolate, which we devoured voraciously), and I brooded almost as well as Darcy himself trying to come up with something that would compensate.

"Of course, we haven't considered what the hospital has to offer…" I said after a moment. "Maybe I'll come across something in the lobby." I went downstairs and, after looking around a few minutes, was successful in finding some reading material which was much more sensible than what my poor brother could provide.

"Here, I've brought WE, Persons and Seven-and-Twenty. I'm sure we'll be much better amused now." Thus, we spent the rest of the afternoon indulging in speculation over whether Lindsey was in "rehab" again or whether Paris was truly as stupid as the media portrays her to be. Ah gossip, what an amiable and elegant pursuit!


End file.
